


Shadow Upon the Pews

by Foxberry



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Breathplay, Choking, Demonic Possession, Demons, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mirrors, Nipple Play, Priest Kink, Priest Shiro - Freeform, Priests, Scratching, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11552667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/pseuds/Foxberry
Summary: As night falls, Shiro secures himself in his quarters and tries to ignore the sins of the night before. Still unsettled and unable to shake the memories, he confronts his reflection and the demon within.





	Shadow Upon the Pews

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with a friend of mine a long time ago and now that we've finally edited it, we're sharing it with you all.

It’s almost midnight, and Shiro’s duties for the day are almost finally over. He escorts the last of the churchgoers to the main road, wishes them safe travel and blessed dreams, locks the gates and brings in the books and chairs. The old chapel is stiflingly quiet. Something almost seems to move amidst the pews but he knows better, because if there is a monster it is nowhere else,

but inside him.

Shiro slips into his office and locks the door. Bolts it. Snaps another heavy-duty padlock shut, jams a chair under the knob. Retreats to the adjoining room, his own private quarters, and does the same to the door there, too.

Confronting the full length mirror, he glares at the reflection. “I know you’re in there, whatever you are.”

Only Shiro stares back.

He bites back a wave of foolishness. Certainly no harm will come to him with heaven’s protection and blessing, but he still can’t shake _it._ He tries hard to keep his mind blank, refusing to admit what happened last night, or that it unsettled a part of him inside his very core.

He’s in the middle of pulling on his cotton nightclothes when the urge returns.

There’s a low chuckle that follows, deep and familiar. It sounds almost as if it’d come from elsewhere. It sounds strange, hanging like a thick fog in the room. It seems to reverberate off the walls, but there’s no echo to be heard.

“You feel it, yes?” The voice asks in a purr. It doesn’t sound human in the way the words come together. The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, exactly as intended. It’s close. So close.

A sickening smile grows into the voice. It’s neither pleasant nor friendly and drips with malice and fake sincerity. “You know you can’t deny it.” A hum follows. “You’re hot… and bothered… and should do something about it. You should ease your frustration.”

The voice tempts and prods, snaking through the room, filling it with its timbre. “Touch yourself. Give into the temptation.”

Silence falls.

Shiro freezes in the midst of pulling on his shirt, remembering how the voice had whispered dirty little things into his ears last night, how it had purred and talked him into one of the most mindblowing orgasms he’s ever had. He tugs on his shirt in panic, fumbling for the bible on his desk. “Father help me…”

His plea sounds weak and feeble in the heavy silence of the room, and he comes so painfully aware of the air thickening in the way it does when he’s trying to fight away those sinful urges alone, long before _the voice_ arrived.

And now even as he grasps his bible and tries to recite the Psalms that once could calm him, all he can think about is how good it’d felt to come. How sinfully and guiltily delicious _everything_ felt as he came.

“Leave,” he says, certain the voice could hear him, “I will not acquiesce to you, demon, malevolent spirit, or otherwise.”

The voice chuckles again as if the walls themselves are crumbling. It draws a slow, deep breath, although it never truly needs to breathe at all. “Your book is little more than the words of men, men like you, and men are led into temptation. As you well know… _Shiro_.”

It rattles out a humming sound, patronisingly thoughtful, pretending to consider an order it refused to see through. “Leave? When you've welcomed me so warmly? With such… _passion_. How could I possibly leave?” It hisses and huffs its words, amused by Shiro's resistance. It isn't going anywhere soon.

“You've _acquiesced_ before.” It clicks its nonexistent tongue in disapproval. “You know you cannot lie to me. I _feel_ you. I _hear_ your heart beating. It's drums for _me_ , my voice.” It forces a low rumbling groan to weaken Shiro's defenses, enjoying the teasing immensely. “You like the sound of my voice, do you not?”

The voice utters words that are at once both familiar and foreign, like deja vu, like the stuff of old dreams, as if Shiro has heard this all once before and he should know what comes next. And even before this strange being has finished speaking, what had been said is already coming to pass — responding on a strange, instinctive level, Shiro’s resolve weakens, a poor candle caught in a maelstrom of unholy fire. The book splayed open in his hands suddenly is too light, the words within pathetic and feeble.

Feeling cornered but refusing to admit it, he sets the book down on the desk and says, “What do you want from me?”

It’s a rhetorical question, because Shiro already knows what this presence wants.

“You’ve already defiled me once before,” he says, voice bitter.

And then he _listens_ , not only because he wants an answer, because the voice was right: there is a certain breathtaking quality in how that voice can make something so sacrilegious and disgraceful feel almost divine.

A long hum of satisfaction follows, resonating like the discomforting sound of white noise. It builds, swirling through the air, vibrating against Shiro’s skin as a persistent caress. The voice sounds as if it gets deeper, more throaty, dripping thicker with charm. Its strength grows with every chip to Shiro’s resolve. “You know what I want. You _feel_ it in your blood. The _need_. The need to _please_ me. The need to please _yourself_.” It calls him out on his foolishness. They both know how the priest is trying to delay the inevitable.

The sound of its breath grows heavier, heaving and shuddering in an absent chest. “Oh,  _I_ defiled you? If you recall, that was _your_ hand.” It huffs a laugh at Shiro’s attempts at innocent denial. It mocks his bitterness, that pathetic attempt to resist the growling and gnawing temptation that emanates from that deep tone. “ _We’ve_ barely begun to defile you.”

A tense, crackling silence lingers in the room, heat rising, ready to snap at any moment, the calm before the storm. The tension builds and thickens, heightening sounds and senses, bringing everything up to a simmer when the voice continues once again, “Look at yourself. Look at what you’re becoming.”

Shiro clenches his hand so hard it hurts. The hand that he had willingly — and eagerly, at one long, drawn-out point — fastened around his… The nails dig into his palms and he grinds them in harder, as if just like that he could punish himself of his crimes.

“You made me into this!” he raises his voice, as the shame builds and his guilt chokes the breath out of him, “I’m… This isn’t me!”

But the voice is right, the voice has always been right — an unbearable heat is gathering in his chest, coiling around his spine, slathered with same faux nectar that leaks from the voice in buckets, and all he wants to do is…

“Touch yourself,” the voice purrs, sending a twitch through Shiro’s body. “That’s what you’re thinking, yes? But you seem to have forgotten something.” Its sense of self-satisfaction grows as it sends a tingling through the priest’s nerves, spurring on the heat within him.

 _“You_ made you what you are!” the voice yells back with a rumbling growl, triumph and certain in its assertion. “I cannot make something out of nothing! I am merely the spark that starts the flame, and you are so very easy to set alight.”

Its tone calms, but the electricity in the room hasn’t changed. “You remember my name, don’t you? You know how much I love it when you scream my name.” A chuckle rumbles through Shiro’s body, the fog growing thicker, the scent of sweat in the room getting stronger. “Give yourself a long _hard_ look in the mirror and look me in the eye. Call me by my _name_.”

Shiro turns, already reduced to a confused, panting mess. There is someone else in the room, there has to be. The presence — that presence — is too overwhelming and all he can smell is the heady tang of sweat and sex. He trips over nothing, finding himself face to face with the mirror.

 _I don’t want this, just leave me alone,_ he wants to say, but something traps the words before he can.

He locks eyes with the _thing_ in the mirror, expecting that reflection’s smile to twist at the corners, expecting those eyes to darken to a sickly amber sheen, expecting a name to fall from his tongue —

“K… Kuro,” he gasps, a protest, a plea, a name lost in the highs of orgasm. It all comes to him like an old dream suddenly remembered.

And as his mouth shapes those accursed syllables, a subtle throb begins to build between his legs. The fabric there tightens. The hand in the reflection twitches in anticipation. And then he notices how vulnerable he looks, eyes more onyx than grey, his visage softened by the dusting of red on his cheeks, his lips parted in fright. He looks… _fuckable_ , and he isn’t sure if this thought belongs to Kuro.

He glances at the clock. Midnight. The door is locked, bolted. He will be undisturbed. There’ll be time come tomorrow morn to rid his clothes from the traces of tonight. And then he can pray for forgiveness after. Guilt rushes him, _it’s so so wrong,_ but his crotch is aching and he wants it and —

 _Kuro_.

A deep satisfied hum follows at the name that rolls off Shiro’s tongue. _Kuro_ sounds pleased, letting the sound of a long sigh fill the room, forcing Shiro to remember his indiscretion, the very sounds he had made with his own two lips in this very room. Kuro wants him to remember it and remember it clearly.

“You recall it well,” Kuro adds with a sickly sweetness dripping in the tone. For a second, a glimpse of gold flickers in Shiro’s eyes, the faintest of signs of what lingers within. Nevertheless, _he_ watches Shiro as Shiro watches _him,_ but with more of a sense of knowing, of expectation, of ownership, than the fear and desperate realisation that meets _his_ gaze out of those same eyes.

A twitch of a nerve returns to Shiro’s hand, fighting with it, just so. His fingers curl briefly at the sudden rush of want moving down his limbs into the hand that hangs so helplessly by his side. It’s just asking to be moved, to be _played_ with.

“ _Fuckable_ ,” Kuro purrs with the word in the room, in Shiro’s mind, and just a hint on the tip of Shiro’s tongue. “You’re already preparing yourself…” he gloats and Shiro’s hand twitches again. A flicker of gold swirls around in the onyx of his eyes, like light catching on the scales of a snake as it coils around its prey. “So eager. So guilty. So ready.”

The electricity in the room sends a shiver through Shiro’s nerves, tingling the ends of his fingers, the tips of his toes, driving his mouth dry, and forcing a breath out his lungs. Kuro’s presence takes hold in the darkest of the night when the moon rises high and dew clings to grass. In the quiet _he_ can hear every sound he draws out with his devilish suggestion, driving even the most devout to their own delectable sin in his name.

Shiro’s hand twitches again when his eyes glow, fingers drawing closer to the ache in his crotch at Kuro’s will that fights against the priest’s muscles. “Touch yourself,” Kuro hisses, adjusting himself to the feel of Shiro’s limbs, making himself at home for the night.

Kuro feels good.

Kuro fits him like a glove, a persistent metronome of lust and desire that extends to the tip of every limb. Kuro is sweet and heady, the perfect mix of exhilaration and guilt, the knowledge that what’s going to happen is so sinfully wrong but will happen either way. Kuro is a reprieve, because with Kuro around, Shiro can continue believing that it’s not his own fault, that it’s Kuro moving his arms and his hips, pulling a sheen of sweat across his skin.

Kuro is the perfect crime.

The belt around his waist is loosened, his trousers falling to puddle around his ankles. In the mirror, they both see all: the white briefs, and that accursed, telltale sign of certain arousal — a soggy spot marking the tip of a rapidly hardening shaft.  

His hand (whose hand?) finally dips past the hem and curls around his length (this is _Shiro’s_ length and _damnations why does it feel_ so _good)._ Shiro’s midriff clenches in the sudden surge of arousal. In the mirror, his thighs tense and his hips roll to meet that teasing touch just right, one finger stroking against that perfect spot and makes him gasp.

Teeth worry his lower lip, Shiro’s in helpless desire, Kuro’s almost nipping hard enough to draw blood. The whimper that escapes is Shiro’s. The ghost of a smirk at how good it all feels? — that’s Kuro, all Kuro. The drop of gold in the eyes of his reflection is still there, like oil across the darkest water.

Shiro lets out a sigh as he moves his hand to the rhythm that had worked so well before, revelling in every electric jolt through his skin. “So good,” he breathes, and he’s not sure it matters what he means any more.

Shiro looks ready.

There’s little resolve left in a man whose trousers have dropped to the floor at such little provocation. By then he’s already decided, already accepted what’s coming to him. He even welcomes his downfall with further strokes, ensuring it shall come to pass swiftly, and with a whimper.

“It _is_ good,” Kuro growls in Shiro’s ear, tone slippery like every new word sent a finger down the line of sweat clinging to the man’s back. “ _Tell_ me what you like, _Your Reverence_.” His voice digs into Shiro like fingernails, harsh and firm, and close to breaking skin. His other hand seems to have made its way to his ass, where it twitches and grasps harder at his notice.

When Shiro’s eyes glance up at the mirror again, lips parting in breathless guilty ecstasy, his left eye winks of its own accord. His eyes seem to glow like molten gold, transfixing his gaze until he finds himself staring down, watching as his hips buck into his tightening grip. A low hum passes through his lips at the sight. The voice is not his, but lower, deeper, wanting.

“Even now you’re _still_ resisting…” Impatience in Kuro’s tone fills the room and echoes inside Shiro’s head. It passes into his lungs, breathing grower deeper and more desperate as if he’s breathing for the two of them. “I do _enjoy_ when you fight me.” Rough and broken, a low chuckle cuts through the thick fog around Shiro. “You cannot give in to temptation without resistance.”

Shiro’s hand slows with another twitch, fingers tightening and letting go in quick bursts of movement. Jerky and haphazardly, the hand settles around the base of his cock and squeezes tight. A warm tingle passes through his body and all Shiro can do is cry out in frustration.

Of course he bucks into that grip, chasing after the too-perfect friction even though it is futile. It’s too much and yet too little at once, his fingers tightening of their own accord, nerves tugged by some invisible puppeteer teasing the flushed, straining cock of the wretched marionette. He just wants it to _move._ A shameful red spreads across his face when the thought makes him twitch in his own hand. Pathetic. Disgusting. _Perfect_ , suggests the voice in his head, almost, except that it’s Shiro feeding himself these thoughts now, and he can’t tell where one ended and the other began.

He tugs his hand away from his ass with effort. The skin throbs, aching for more of that merciless grip. There are marks, five of them, each a blush of crimson under a crescent indentation. _Pretty._ “Unhand me. There are limits. I will not play your dirty games,” he growls at the mirror, at Kuro, at what little he can see of Kuro. That upturned lip, that intense gaze, the drop of amber that flickers at being addressed.

With a jolt his free hand moves, tracing a line from his crotch to his navel, along the dip in his chest. Upwards — Shiro guesses its destination easily, but that doesn’t stop the hand from moving.

_What is it like, for the touch to not belong to him? For those hands to belong completely to someone else — to Kuro? For him to come with the shape of someone else’s hand around his length, staring into someone else’s eyes so he doesn’t need to be reminded of how his face twists up as he comes?_

Jaw gritted against the sickening pleasure, Shiro grimaces at his reflection. His hand settles on his black shirt, fingers curling around the his nipples, nails suddenly digging in and he bites back the cry that begs to fall. His cock throbs, once, insistently, and his hips stutter as if slapped forward by an undeniable force. The twist of his abused nipple sends a pain that cuts so deep, so fast that his breathing staggers.

A clear bead has gathered on the tip of his cock. His throat aches, suddenly, his mouth going dry. In the reflection, his smile grows.

“You know I can hear what you tell yourself, _Your Reverence?”_ Kuro’s voice calls out in amongst the thick fog, deep and rolling, filling Shiro’s lungs with a heavy need and more desperate wanting. It feeds into his blood, seeping into his flesh, pulling forth the sweat to cling at his skin as the priest sinks deeper into future regrets. “About how much of a filthy, feeble, woeful excuse for a man of the cloth you are.”

Shiro’s hand squeezes tight at his nipple, twisting until the his jaw slackens and gasps into a silent scream.

It _hurts,_ oh heavens, Shiro can barely think to draw breath. But even despite that blinding pain Shiro registers his other hand slackening and like the shameful heathen he is, yanks his hand back from Kuro’s control. He can feel the crest approaching slowly. Quickly, greedily, he works himself into a desperate rhythm, towards that strange crest between him and his relief.

Kuro growls lower, the room shaking at his timbre, growing cramped and volatile, ready to catch alight at the very spark of an amber glint in onyx eyes. “You speak to _me_ of limits?!” Fingers tighten to produce another gasp, one more broken than the last. “You think you can _command_ me?!” Shiro’s chin jolts up with a sharp pain in his neck, forcing him to stare into his own eyes, invisible fingers creating a vice around his jaw.

“You will play along with my _game_ as I see fit.” Kuro’s voice bites into Shiro’s resolve, tearing away at mortal barriers like teeth at flesh. A sharp pain shoots through Shiro’s neck again and twists through the muscle, down and down, until Shiro’s cock twitches. A clear drop falls to the floor. “After all, a game cannot end until it is won.” Shiro’s lips break into a smile, white teeth forming in a sickly grin, contorting his features into an unhallowed fiendish semblance of the face Shiro knows.

The hand surges up Shiro’s chest, climbing, twisting, fingers reaching out for purchase. His hips buck into the tightening grip of his other hand, drawing out sharp gasps and weak whimpers. A pathetic cry rips from his chest when the hand seizes his throat, long fingers and broad palm constricting around the muscle, grip tightening until the smile on Shiro’s face fades to parted lips.

His air cuts. Shiro glares at his reflection, with nothing he can do except to watch his eyes slowly widen in panic as his head begins to throb from lack of air. It’s _his_ hand, and _his_ body; why can’t he control it?

 _This is just a game to Kuro,_ he realises with a sickening whimper, _I’m nothing but a toy._

Right on cue there is a low rumble of amusement, mixed in with satisfaction and something almost like triumph, then punctuated with one of his own weak, helpless moans to beg for air. In his other hand, he feels his own cock throb, as wanting and foreign as the demon encroaching his most intimate thoughts and fears.

It nibbles at the edge of his vision — Kuro, the faint smudges of oncoming unconsciousness, the shadows behind dressers and books almost squirming at his demise.

The grip around his neck tightens almost inhumanely. He didn’t know he was capable of a strength this cruel.

“Kuro,” he gasps, one of his knees going weak, sending him stumbling towards the mirror. His voice is more air than sound, and any sooner there will be no more air left at all. “Kuro, _please.”_

He doesn’t miss how the word feels as it oozes off his tongue, like honeyed poison, like soured milk and bad wine — nor how it manifests, out of nowhere, a hungry coil in the pit of his loins. Those two syllables _Kuro_ are almost innocuous in their simplicity, but feel like hell itself; fire and brimstone and devilish pleasure withheld.

His forehead hits the glass with a dull thud, his head sliding at the touch of sweat. Both hands occupied, he has no other way to move and his nose grazes against the cool, smooth surface. It is but a small respite in the pressurised heat, rising and boiling, ready to overflow at a word from his own lips. A word from a voice not his own.

He can see his hand curled around his neck, the hair on his fingers, the rough edge of worn cuticles, and he swears he can feel his other hand’s grip growing tighter around his cock. It moves with desperation now, less of his touch and more of the beast that consumes him. He feels weak to it, slumping against the mirror, feeling the cool touch brush against the tip of his cock.

When he gasps, he can’t escape the look in his eyes. A hint of amber lingers but that look is his own. Desperation, longing, want, lust, all sit across his face like they were always meant to be there. A sense of satisfaction surges within him, too unfamiliar to place a source.

“You see it?” Kuro growls, fingers clawing into the side of Shiro’s neck. “That _want_. It is _delectable_ and it’s all _yours.”_ Shiro’s hand slides down, still twitching as he tries to fight back for control. Red lines mark its path down, skin stinging, burning and aching for the pain to stop. Shiro’s mouth opens to release a low moan foreign to his ears.

His nails become claws, digging across his neck like the bite of a wild animal, erratic and quick, marking skin with indentations. They work across his neck to the sound of Kuro’s satisfied hums. _“Lick_ the mirror, _Shiro_ . Show me how much you want to _sin.”_ His voice tempts like a siren’s call, singing into Shiro’s ear, calling him closer to the mirror, breaking down his resistance and bringing forth the most repressed of his desires. Only his downfall awaits.

“Admit how much you like me _inside_ you.” A bright flash of amber takes to Shiro’s eyes, reflecting back with vibrant ardour. They dart to the hand around his cock, his shame, and they watch the ruthless stroking breaking Shiro down, weakening his knees. He collapses forward, only held up by invisible strings tugging at every part of him.

The dark temptation of Kuro’s tone brushes against Shiro’s ear. “The next words out of your mouth will be ‘Yes’ and ‘Kuro’.” He smiles with no teeth, humming his satisfaction with no lips. “No exceptions.”

Those words send a heated rush through him. Shiro _groans,_ the sound feeble and strained and pulling mist across his reflection, and for a moment he almost believes Kuro will reach out for him through that transient fog, grab his nights and yank him into the strange netherworld beyond.

Just as the thought forms, his body loses all strength and sags against the mirror. “Kuro,” he grits out, the word half curse, half plea. _Lick the mirror, Shiro. Show me._

With the last shred of defiance he still has left, he clenches his jaw hard and refuses. But it’s too easy for Kuro to dig a warning nail into the head of his cock, remind him how brutal his control could be, that there are limits to Kuro’s patience, that Shiro could be _made_ to obey.

_Admit how much you like me inside you._

It is a long fight, but the final scraps of the reverend’s resistance dissipates. He uses his free hand to prop himself up against the mirror for a better angle. Resignation is such a different look on him, he realises. Especially when it’s tinged with a guilty blush, slicked with sweat and pre, eyes blown out and more gold than brown.

“Yes, Kuro,” he whispers.

Everything else falls into place.

Kuro’s satisfaction is almost an orgasm in itself, a haunting frigidness that eats him from the inside while his tongue presses against the indifferent metal chill of the mirror. He wants to close his eyes, but it almost doesn’t feel right to. He looks _good_ like this, almost as good as he feels, with ruined nightclothes and sweat matting his bangs to his forehead.

His hand jerks and he recognises the first few strands of those marionette strings tightening again. _Kuro._

No! He’s so close! Desperately he tries to wrestle back control. “Please,” he begs, those words fogging up the mirror, _“Please!_ Let me… let me c-come.”

Kuro’s content beats through Shiro’s chest like a second heartbeat, drumming in his ears, echoing in the room. The rush of it consumes Shiro, smothering him in that feeling, the sense of having made the very demon he detests _pleased_. It prickles at his skin, goosebumps forming, hair rising, like the cold chill has finally settled down his spine.

“You’re asking now…” Kuro almost sounds impressed, if not curious, like a beast teasing and circling him, ready to pounce. The tension in Shiro’s nerves grows, tingling and nipping at every juncture. Tendons pull and muscles tense, constricting and moving with twitches. Kuro plays every part of Shiro’s body like a well-strung harp, plucking out moans of frustration as his music of choice.

Kuro hums thoughtfully, amber swirling in Shiro’s eyes in the smudged reflection. “You have such a pretty voice. So pleasant. So willing. So _desperate.”_ A sigh breaks through Shiro’s own lips as the demon takes control of those too. Pulling against the priest’s resistance, he talks through Shiro’s own mouth, forcing him to watch as Kuro demonstrates his dominance.

“Do you like the sound of your own voice?” This time the purrs drips from Shiro’s own mouth, oozing out and over his tongue, seeping into the air for the sound to echo back in the small room. “Can you hear me in it? _Using_ you?” Shiro’s eyebrow quirks up, raising as Kuro asks his question. The rest of his face struggles against it, pulling and controlling, but it freezes within a moment.

Shiro’s hand moves at Kuro’s will, grabbing hold of his weeping dick, thumbing over the slit, wiping sweat and precome over it as if it were nothing more than an object of mild interest. “You want to come, do you?” he asks as if the priest’s question has only just come to his attention. “Are you sure you’re _worthy_ ? I thought you didn’t _want_ to play my dirty games.”

Teeth flash in the mirror when Kuro forces Shiro’s lip into a crude smile. “You can come. I won’t _stop_ you.” The smirk remains, sinister and sharp, driving Shiro’s features to appear like that of the very creature Shiro dreaded. “Neither will I help. You have to _want_ it.”

The strings holding the tension in Shiro’s body relax. The contortion of Shiro’s features disappear. The sound of Kuro’s chilling laughter fades. The only hint of Kuro left, of his presence, is the hint of gold in Shiro’s eyes.

Shiro doesn’t want it.

His hand slows, and in his grip, his length throbs.

At once, Shiro becomes aware of everything Kuro has done to him. Every scar across Shiro’s neck like torn lace, every ache where a nail had dug and clawed, the relentless pulse across his ass in the shape of a handprint. It was all real.

Shiro pulls his eyes from the mirror, stifling a sob. He trips over his own trousers trying to stumble away from it and lands heavily on his knees, barely managing to avoid smearing his own slick all over the carpeted floor.

Even so… Shiro scrubs the back of his hand against his eyes, trying to catch his breath. There is no ignoring the tension between his legs.

He shuffles over to the bed, resting his head against the soft covers.

_You can come._

Kuro’s voice sounds like a distant memory already, but it’s enough, just barely enough. Grinding his jaws together so hard it makes him lightheaded, he grasps his length tightly and begins to stroke. It’s fast and tactless and desperate and Shiro just wants to come and then for the night to end for real.

He hates the accusing silence of the room, where the only sounds are of his own wanton gasps, while in his mind the word _Kuro_ rattles meaninglessly around and yields no response.

“So close…” he muffles his groan into the bed, closes his eyes, and drives himself towards his orgasm. Nobody else will know about this. It’s just a bad dream. It’s all just a bad dream, he thinks, feeling trapped by his own too-tight skin and yet too small for his empty room.

_No, he’s… lonely._

The thought of Kuro that arises is unbidden, and belongs to Shiro. He isn’t sure what it is, but he senses the slightest movement behind him and the very _daydream_ of Kuro watching him defile himself is enough to topple him over the edge with a broken mewl, his entire body shuddering like a teenager’s as he spends himself shamefully in his own hand.

Ringing in the distance, like a bell in the distance, or perhaps more like a foghorn yelling warning to a ship out at sea, Kuro’s voice calls out in barely more than a whisper in his ear, “I knew you had it in you.”

The beast makes no attempt to pull at any more strings, no more nerves to pluck or limbs to move. He settles into the shadows of the bed, the creases seeming to claw at Shiro where he had left his mark. “Sleep well, _Shiro_.”

His laughter is cold, fleeting, leaving like the last glimpse of the night sky before dawn. He’s starting to fade and whatever grip he had has slipped to the floor like Shiro’s trousers. A resignation takes to his voice, tired and content in it's tone. “I shall return. Do not doubt that.”

Just as the sound of his voice begins to fade into the first waves of sleep take to Shiro’s mind, a soft laugh disrupts the peace. “Save your strength.” A hint of smirk touches Shiro’s face, the subtlest move Kuro has made yet, almost like a kiss at the corner of his mouth. With Shiro’s lips, he mutters his final words of the night, “You’re going to need it.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are very much appreciated.


End file.
